


Towns Flying By

by Jocondite (jocondite)



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-01
Updated: 2007-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jocondite/pseuds/Jocondite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon is very much in love with the van. He draws a ragged row of little black hearts on the back door, just above where some girl in some town had scrawled her phone number. He loves it right up until the heat cuts out somewhere in the middle of Colorado that first November.</p><p>(Cuddling for warmth).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Towns Flying By

**Author's Note:**

  * For [disarm_d](https://archiveofourown.org/users/disarm_d/gifts).



> Set on Fall Out Boy's Nintendo Fusion Tour in 2005.

When they first bought their van, with money from Spencer and Brent's parents', and even a little bit of his own savings and some from their label, Brendon was certain it was the coolest thing, ever. Room for their gear, room for the four of them and for Ryan's friend who was going to be merch guy (seriously, they had _merch_ ) - and not only were they allowed to personalise the van's exterior with sharpie and whatever came to hand, it was _encouraged_.

("Go to town," Pete had said, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Just nothing that'll get you arrested, watch the language and the vile slander, because you don't want to end up in a little town in the back of the Midwest in front of an angry crowd who, like, totally want to wrap your entrails around their pitchforks. Or maybe that had more to do with the pretty guy I was hooki- you know what, that totally never happened, forget what I just said.")

Brendon is very much in love with the van. He draws a ragged row of little black hearts on the back door, just above where some girl in some town had scrawled _hottiez! at the dizco, xoxo (124-555-8466)_. He loves it right up until the heat cuts out somewhere in the middle of Colorado that first November.

Ryan's in the driver's seat when it cuts out; he turns the key in the ignition and the engine sputters into life with a strange crunching undertone which stops abruptly. Ryan stares at the dash and swears under his breath.

"What, Ryan," Spencer asks, leaning over from the back; he and Brendon have the sleeping shift along with Brent, with Merch Guy (he has a name, but Brendon is too charmed by the fact that they _have_ a Merch Guy to call him anything else) riding shotgun. Ryan likes driving, likes the open road ahead, but he's been offering to drive ahead of other people more and more often lately, even when it's not his turn. Brendon's seen Spencer's eyes go narrow when Ryan offers.

"I'm thinking it's broken," Brendon whispers, and Spencer stares at him quellingly. He goes quiet.

It's broken. Ryan thumps the dashboard with his fist, but it remains broken, and continues to be broken even after the air is black with vituperation and little knobs have been fruitlessly fiddled with and the dash has been thumped several more times for good measure. In the end there's nothing to do but drive on to Denver through the night, with the windows going foggy and Pete calling intermittently from Fall Out Boy's bus to make sure his littlest minions ("Hey, we're not – I mean, I guess _technically_ , but -"), haven't frozen to death or taken the wrong turning in the dark ("One time, _one time…_ " "Please, it's more like ten. I got records, you better believe it.")

Brendon can't sleep, though, even though he lies there tired from the night's show, waiting to fall asleep. It's too fucking cold. He's wearing two hoodies, one on top of the other, the hoods drawn up over his head and cinched tight so that only the smallest circle of his face peers through, red and cold. Underneath him he can hear the rattle and clatter of the road, small stones coming free from the asphalt and clicking against the mudguards, in a rough, broken, almost-melody, a soft percussion. He's shifted and jarred by every unevenness in the road, by every turn; to his left, Brent is snoring in half-muffled, ragged breaths.

"It's really fucking cold," Spencer says quietly behind him, and Brendon turns his head to stare at him over his shoulder. Brendon can make out the faint glint of Spencer's eyes in the dim.

"No shit."

"Your hoodie looks fucking ridiculous like that."

"Because it's _cold_ ," Brendon says, plaintive. "At least this way my ears are warm. Warmish. Whatever. My nose is fucking frozen, though."

Spencer laughs a little. "Mine, too."

"Stupid van. Stupid, _shitty_ van."

"Piece of junk," Spencer agrees, and Brendon feels irrationally like defending the van's honor.

"I'm cold," he says instead. Spencer's eyes flicker, going hooded, and Brendon's about to whine about how _he_ can't sleep, even if Brent can and Spencer's going to, how no one can sleep in the _arctic_ and he's never ever going to sleep in an igloo, how some cherished childhood dreams will just have to die frosty deaths, when Spencer looks up again.

"We should." He clears his throat. "You should - if you, if you came over here, like, for warmth, we'd be warmer. Because of the cold."

"Wow," Brendon says, " _wow_ , you have a talent for stating the obvious. I think that performance could win medals."

"Shut the fuck up," Spencer snaps, and they're quiet for a while, save for Brent's soft snores and the rattle of the road, the muffled sound of the radio in the front turned right down and filtered through the rough partition.

Brendon lies on his back, staring at the low ceiling, and he can hear Spencer breathing, quiet and even, like he's waiting.

"What the fuck ever," he says finally, "get over here," and Spencer rolls silently against his side. He's warm and solid, and Brendon has to actually stop himself from snuggling into him, seeking the heat out.

"You're a really awkward shape," he says instead.

"Your elbow is in my back."

"Yeah, well, if you'd just move that way, _ow_ –"

There's pushing and shoving and fierce, quiet whispering, and finally they find a position that's comfortable, that Brendon would never have asked for, but which totally works for him; Spencer lying back against his front, Brendon's arm slung over his side. It doesn't count as spooning when it's survival.

"I can totally hear your teeth chattering."

"It's getting better," Spencer says quietly.

"We're only going to freeze to death a little bit. I hear it's like going to sleep," Brendon offers, "you just shut your eyes, and you wake up in happyland."

Spencer shifts against him, but doesn’t say anything. "Brent could be dead, not sleeping," Brendon continues, "how do we even know?"

"The dead don't snore."

"Well, yeah. Apart from that."

Spencer doesn’t say anything, and finally Brendon leans his head forward, his nose buried in the back of Spencer's neck, slowly thawing. He goes to sleep like that, quite unexpectedly, curled close around Spencer, soft hair tickling his face.

-

"What," Brent says when he wakes up. Just that: " _What._ "

Brendon almost expects Spencer to jerk away as though he's been scalded, but instead he stays right there, crowded against Brendon's chest. "It's love, man, don't be a hater," he says, in the light, ironic tone that Brendon knows without seeing is accompanied by the sort of smirk that gets people bitchslapped; people that aren't Spencer, because somehow he gets away with it, so fucking comfortable with himself and in his skin.

"It was cold," he tells Brent. "I'm using Spencer for his body warmth, and then I'm planning to dump him for a groupie in the next town."

Brent looks from Brendon to Spencer and back again, blinking. He's a little slow when he's just woken up; he blinks again. "Hey, I've known Spencer a lot longer than I've known you," he says, rolling with it. "I think if you do that, I have to punch you in the nose or something. Maybe the stomach, so you can still sing."

"The _balls,_ " Spencer says, "totally the balls, it'd be kind of trippy in the good way to hear him soprano." He sits up, starting to stretch, humming low in the back of his throat.

Brendon's suddenly cold. It feels almost like he's lost something, the chill air a sudden shock against his sleep-warm skin; he feels lighter without Spencer leaning back against him. He's grateful at the same time. There were layers of clothing and sleeping bags between them, but still, waking up so close to another guy is awkward; stupid bodily reflexes, urges, whatever, that he can't _help_.

The light edging around the flimsy van curtains is a watery sort of grey, fading from black, which means that they're going to be pulling over and finding an IHOP in the next town or two, or a McDonalds, if they're spectacularly unlucky.

"We must be getting pretty close to morning," Brent says, as if he can read Brendon's mind, and Spencer stops mid-hum.

"Fuck," he says. "I'm not taking the next shift, no way," and the quiet devolves into heated debate and several rounds of rock-paper-scissors. All in vain, because when they do pull over, Ryan leans over the back and points his long index finger at Brendon with a _pfawww_ noise, like the fake gunshot noises dubbed onto old westerns. "You with a bullet," he says.

Brendon's ready to argue the point, and leans forward. Ryan raises his eyebrows at him; the shadows under his eyes are almost perfectly violet, and Brendon suddenly remembers that it's Ryan's turn to spring for the hash browns. He doesn't want to mess with that.

-

Denver is not much warmer, but as soon as they arrive in the mid-afternoon, Pete organizes for their van to be taken away for repairs, almost before they've got their gear out. It's like magic, like he just clicks his fingers and things _happen_ , just like Ryan used to believe they did; and after the show, the heat is back on.

Brent drives the overnight stretch into Montana, and it's still - it's still pretty fucking cold, even with the heat restored.

"Spencer," Brendon says quietly in the dark; Spencer looks back at him. They shift around, hushed, until they're curled together again.

"For warmth," Brendon says into Spencer's ear, his lips nearly touching its edge. Ryan is stretched out not too far away, thin arms around himself, eyes moving restlessly under their eyelids. Spencer doesn't say anything at all, just breathes, chest rising and falling against Brendon's arm.

-

Spencer drives through to Minnesota a couple of nights later, and it's Brendon's turn to ride shotgun; he sleeps some of the way, except when he's awake and fiddling with the stereo, switching stations until Spencer starts to swerve threateningly over the line into the other lane.

Sleeping in the passenger seat gives him a fucking crick in the neck, but in the passenger's seat he doesn't wake up hard and awkward. Which is a bonus, and a relief.

-

The next time they're both in the back for the sleeping shift, Brendon doesn’t say anything; he meets Spencer's eyes, though, once they've all gone quiet and Merch Guy's breath is evening out.

Spencer raises his eyebrows. Brendon starts to move, stops himself, and after a second, staring, Spencer sighs heavily and tilts his head.

Brendon crawls over towards him and pulls him back against his chest, arm sliding over his waist. It's comfortable, bodies fitting together, shifting. He's ready to shut his eyes, sleep, when Spencer finally speaks.

"It's not that cold tonight, you know. I'd even call it balmy."

"Balmy," Brendon echoes. Spencer is warm sleepy weight against him, the curve of his neck soft and heated. There's a freckle just where his hair hits his neck, usually hidden by the long sweep of his hair. (Almost like a girl's, Brendon thinks, has thought, long enough now that it brushes against his shoulders. He doesn't, hasn't said that, because Ryan's is as long, and Ryan has a lean strength despite his slender wrists, and an uncanny ability to sink his fist into the most tender, painful places on one's torso.)

"That's what I said," Spencer agrees, and Brendon realizes that he was waiting, is waiting, for some sort of response. He's too tired, too _something,_ to give him that, though, and he just says "Balmy is good, though, right?" and when Spencer starts to reply, he says loudly "shhhh, I'm sleeping," and that's that.

-

"Brendon," Spencer says quietly, when they're lying there half-awake and hurtling towards morning.

"Mmmrgh?"

 _"Brendon."_

It's maybe one of the most awkward awakenings of his life, waking up to find himself hard against Spencer and moving his hips in small, rolling waves, sleep-stupid. Brendon freezes utterly and completely still with sheer horror, a rabbit going still and hoping that the lack of movement will make it invisible; for a moment all he can hear is the sound of blood thudding in his ears, and then the small incoherance of his own breathing, Spencer's. Their noses are nearly brushing.

"Fuck," he hisses, jerks away, rolling back to a safe distance. He shuts his eyes.

They don't say anything more until everyone wakes up, and then it's the usual wrangling over the radio stations and the demands for caffeine _right the fuck now_ , everything else covered over with cacophony and argment.

-

The next time, there's no exchange at all. Brent pulls his sleeping bag out, rolling it out along the floor, and tosses theirs over at them; Brendon's smacks him in the head ("Ow, the fuck-"), but Spencer catches his neatly.

"You going to snuggle?" Brent asks. "Don't front, I know you guys're still doing it."

"It gets chilly," Spencer says, poker-faced.

"Whatever," Brent says, shaking his head and squirming, undignified, into his sleeping bag. No one looks cool getting into one of those, Brendon thinks, and then he wonders if even Pete Wentz would look stupid getting into one, if Fall Out Boy wasn't so big that he had his own bus and had left behind sleeping bags and the drafty backs of vans and nosy, inquiring bandmates all up in his business.

"It's not anything," he says, and feels hotly thwarted when Brent just rolls his eyes and repeats "Whatever."

"It's completely pure," Spencer says, face suspiciously smooth.

Brent doesn't answer them, just turns over in his cocoon.

Brendon doesn’t feel like it tonight anymore, so when Spencer raises his eyebrows at him he just shakes his head.

 _Wuss,_ Spencer mouths at him, _pussy,_ and Brendon shuts his eyes and turns his face to the wall, listening to the wheels turn.

-

In Cincinnati, Pete stops by the glorified broom closet that does them for a dressing room - there's a hook to hang their shirts on, and a half-mirror, and that's actually kind of princely, compared to some. Being the second band on in a five-band line up is pretty sweet, all things considered, but things could be better.

(When Brendon said this, though, Ryan fixed him with a glare and said "Things can always be better, right until we're on the front cover of Rolling Stone and getting Grammys. Don't overstate the obvious.")

Pete beams paternally at each of them in turn. His teeth are very white, and his t-shirt screams _Britney, I could treat you better!_ His hair is perfectly straightened and slicked into place.

"Children," he says, "kids, you're in for a treat."

"Is it ice cream?"

Pete smiles benevolently. "It is not," he says, portentously, "ice cream."

"Fuck," Spencer says. "The crowd. I bet they're throwing stuff at the warm-up band, right? You've come to announce our imminent death or humiliation. How kind."

Brent groans mournfully, face in his hands.

" _Children,_ " Pete repeats, more in sorrow than in anger. "I am wounded. Right to my very core. Here I am, working to give you, my little band of greenhorns, gathered under my experienced, sheltering wing, a treat, a treat of great and wondrous and entirely unselfish kindness –"

Spencer clears his throat. "We're on in five."

"Really?" Pete says. "Well, fuck. Okay, deal is, we're staying in hotels tonight. All of us, even you, pipsqueaks. You have five minutes, fill them with gratitude."

"Dude!" Brendon says, bounding up, "dude, really? That's awesome, that's – "

Spencer tilts his head consideringly. "Thank you –"

"That's. Uh. Wow," Brent says.

Ryan doesn't say anything, just smiles, a small dented smile that he tries to hide by ducking his head.

"Ryan," Pete says, "Ryan, Ryan," until he lifts his head and looks at him. "If you scoot along to my dressing room, you can use my hair-straightener. Better hurry, though."

Ryan smiles again, then, a different smile, grin broad across his face, and disappears down the hall.

"Well, are we ready?" Pete asks.

Brendon checks himself out in the mirror, straightening his tie and making sure that his hair falls across his forehead and down over his ears in sleek, glossy black wings. "Just about." He sticks his thumbs through his beltloops, considering.

"It's really nice of you," Spencer says to Pete quietly. In the mirror, Brendon can make out the cant of his hips, the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin; he knows Spencer well enough to know that they all mean a question.

"He needs some sleep," Pete says, just as quietly, his smile dwindling down, "he looks tired, lately."

After a moment, Spencer nods.

-

"Where's Merch Guy going to sleep?" Brendon asks, opening his eyes wide at the two neat double rooms that they've been allocated. "On the floor? In the van?"

"I have a name, Brendon," Merch Guy says, frowning. "You know my name."

Brendon pauses. "Of course I do."

"There's room," Ryan says, his bag slung over his shoulder. "I'm. I'm –"

"He's staying with me," Pete says, materializing silently in the hallway, from out of the shadows. "We have three rooms, so there's a spare bed. Andy snores, you see," he tells Brent glibly, before he can open his mouth to get the question out. "Like a chainsaw. Blood-curdling. We have to put him in quarantine."

"Ah," Brendon says thoughtfully, as Pete pulls Ryan after him to rooms unknown. Spencer keeps his mouth shut.

-

"Beds," Brendon says deliriously, "beds beds beds beds _beds_."

"Dude, I know. I see them."

"Can we jump on them?" Brendon asks. He's sitting on the end of his, and he bounces a little, the springs sounding in creaking protest. "Or would they throw us out? Would they charge us – haha, no, wait, I mean Pete - would they charge _Pete_ for damages?"

Spencer shrugs. "They'll just think that someone's having a really, really good time. Jump away."

"Well, jumping on beds _is_ fun," Brendon offers. Spencer just looks at him. "You think that they’ll think that we're engaging in sweaty, angry, monstrous _fucking_ , Spencer Smith?"

"It's an okay hypothesis. Rhythmically, I mean." Spencer shrugs again. "Springs squeaking, headboard banging, what would you think?"

There's a little pause as Brendon carefully unlaces his shoes and kicks them off. He needs to get out of these clothes, but there's something in the weight of the air, the shape of the silence, that makes him feel awkward about it right now, about taking his shirt off and getting out of the fucking dress pants which Ryan says makes them look sharp. He shoots a look across at Spencer, lower lip disappearing between his teeth.

Spencer looks back at him, his face blank and weirdly serious. Brendon watches the line of his throat shift when he swallows, the tip of his tongue passing over his lips.

"Maybe," Brendon says. "Rhythmically." He swallows. "I mean, that makes sense."

"Yeah."

He can't keep looking at Spencer any longer, so he twists away and starts unbuttoning his shirt, shrugs it off. There should be a mostly-clean t-shirt somewhere in his bag; he's leaning down to look for it when Spencer asks, softly, "Are you cold?"

"What? No, not really, I'm going to put a shirt on... oh."

Spencer's still looking at him, his hair faintly limned with gold in the electric light.

"Maybe," Brendon says finally, again. "I mean, it's, you know, it's kind of chill."

It's not, really, not compared to night in Colorado and the way his breath frosted on the air in the back of the van, but his skin is breaking out in goosebumps, his nipples going hard; Spencer's still just looking at him, and the tilt of his head is a question, rolling on and out, waiting.

Brendon leans forward into the space, and this is maybe the stupidest thing he's ever done. It's at least the stupidest thing he's done for a while now. Spencer's lips are closed and dry under his, and he's about to pull the fuck back when Spencer makes a hasty, surprised sound. Then his lips are sliding slickly against Brendon's, and then it's. It's strange and sweet, and totally and completely weird, an awkward sliding back and forth, mouths moving together. The angle Brendon's leaning in at is killing his neck but he doesn't know what to do with his hands anymore, they're stupid and useless at his sides.

"Hey," Spencer says, quiet, breathing out shudderingly slow, his hand coming up to curve around Brendon's shoulder, to slide up and cup his jaw, "you're shaking, your hands are shaking," and Brendon laughs before he even means to, says "I'm _cold_."

-

Ryan goes around to the passenger's side of the van before they've even decided who's doing what, and Spencer stops him, hand on his shoulder.

"You can go in the back," he says, "get some sleep."

Ryan's eyebrows draw together. The line of his mouth flat and pinched. "I did," he says, "I slept all night, like a baby."

Brendon watches as Ryan goes redder and redder the longer Spencer just stands there, looking at him, but instead of looking away Ryan looks straight back, eyes shifting and settling pointedly on Spencer's neck.

He can't see the mark from this angle, Spencer turned away from him, but he knows it's there, remembers making it. Fuck. He yanks open the door on the driver's side and gets in, and ignores the byplay until the impasse ends. Ryan follows the others into the back. Spencer climbs in shotgun and just raises his eyebrows when Brendon looks over at him.

He turn the stereo up until he can't hear the others, can't even hear Spencer, and takes the highway to, eventually, Rhode Island. Every now and then, his gaze flickers over. Spencer smiles back at him, the smile too much in his eyes and curling his cheeks to be a smirk, and Brendon stares at the shape of his mouth. The silence between them is soft and warm, filled with the eighties power ballads blaring from the dash and the memories of making out until they weren't even kissing properly even more, just pressing their mouths together, too tired to keep their eyes open but not ready to stop.

-

They reach Providence the next day, about an hour after lunch and about a day and a half of taking turns behind the wheel, non-stop. They've only just begun to unpack the equipment when Joe comes strolling over. He has his hands stuck in his pockets in an almost ostentatiously casual way.

"Second to last show," he says, "you guys are nearly broken in."

Spencer's eyes widen a little, like he's just remembered something, and Joe nods approvingly.

"Pete's going to get you," he says, his face screwing up a little like he's trying not to laugh. "I think he said about feathers? Maybe it was underwear. Who knows, he's a crazy kid. Tomorrow night, it's all on." He claps Brent heartily on the shoulder (Brent looks phlegmatic), smiles beatifically at them all; turns and saunters away, satisfaction in the smug set of his shoulders, like he hasn't just reminded them of their impending death-by-public-practical-joke.

"Fuck," Ryan says, faint.

Brendon looks at Spencer, then at the van's open doors, marked with sharpie; small black hearts and grotesque caricatures and phrases that Ryan rolls around in his mouth until they fit. He's probably responsible for the new _Spencer James Urie!!!_ scrawled small and neatly vindictive along one panel; Spencer is unlikely to punch him for it, because he's Ryan.

"We're totally marked men. Do you think we can run away?"


End file.
